


Picking Up the Pieces

by flashforeward



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 07:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5197466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashforeward/pseuds/flashforeward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Jonathan's loss, he finds a not so unlikely friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picking Up the Pieces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [errandofmercy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/errandofmercy/gifts).



"You ought to at least put on clothes."

The words are familiar, but the voice isn't Henry's and that's what makes Jonathan look up. He's slumped in an armchair by a fire that hasn't deserved the name for hours. His housecoat is on, but it's hanging open over his bed clothes and he's not sure how long he's been wearing it. Since the funeral, he thinks. When was that, again? He can't quite remember if it's been one day or two. He knows that Henry had to return to his parish. He thinks. But then...who is here?

He turns slowly - he's tired and weak and not sure he really cares - and sees a familiar shape slumped in the doorway. He's all shadows and it takes Jonathan a moment to really place the figure. "Ah," he says when his mind can settle, "did you slip your leash or are you on an errand for the Magician of York?"

"I'm here on my own time," Childermass drawls, pushing himself off the wall with a shoulder and eating up the floor with long, lithe strides. "I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Strange."

"Are you, then?" Jonathan turns back to face the fireplace, glaring down at the ashes. "Where were you and your master when I needed you?" he asks, bitter and hard.

"There was nothing to be done."

Jonathan barks a humorless laugh. "Is that your professional opinion, or are you merely parroting?"

A hand clenches in his hair, pulling his head back and to the side so that his gaze meets Childermass's. It doesn't hurt. It's more like a splash of cold water. A wake up call, jostling him enough to clear the cobwebs from his common sense. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice hoarse from the tilt of his throat, "I know you better than that. I know you both better than that."

The grip loosens, shifts down to grab Jonathan under his arm, pulling at him. "On your feet," the low voice growls in his ear. "Wash up, get dressed. I'll see about a fire and something to eat."

It's the most Jonathan's ever heard Childermass say at one time, and the shock is enough to get him moving. He's unsteady, but Childermass's hand stays on his back all the way up the stairs and into the bedroom - cold and musty now, after a few days of disuse.

"Can you manage?" Childermass asks. For a moment, Jonathan considers his pride, but only for a moment. He's tired and cold and he aches all over but mostly deep in his heart, so he just shakes his head. Childermass's hand disappears and that ache in his heart starts to grow deeper before her feels hands on his shoulders, carefully pulling his dressing gown from him. Once it's off, Childermass turns him carefully, leading him to the washbasin.

"Wait," Childermass says when Jonathan automatically reaches out. He slips one finger into the water and Jonathan feels rather than hears the whispers of magic. A moment later, Childermass withdraws his finger and gestures for Jonathan to wash up. He submerges his hands and finds that the water is pleasantly warm.

"Do you ever think," he asks, his voice hoarse, "that you are wasted on Mr. Norrell?"

It's quiet for a very long time and Jonathan thinks he has gone too far, offended the man beyond reason and now Childermass will leave him alone to his grief once more.

But then Childermass speaks, his voice low and quiet. "Did you ever think that Arabella was wasted on you?" he asks.

Jonathan bows his head and splashes water up onto his face. It's cooled off some, but it's still nice, and it helps to wake him, though it does not keep the tears at bay. "Yes," he says quietly, "yes, I feared that I did not deserve her and now I have lost her and," his voice chokes and he stumbles back but solid, certain hands are there, catching him, carefully lowering him down to the floor where they sit together, Childermass holding him in a loose embrace as he sobs and shakes.

He'd thought he'd cried out all his tears, but now they feel redoubled. Like they will never end.

But they do end. He has no sense of how long it takes, but eventually the sobs and tears taper off and he is left with a tear-streaked face, slumped into the warm body behind him, with no will to move. "I'm sorry," he says.

"You are hurt," Childermass replies, his voice soft, lips mere inches from Jonathan's ear. "That is nothing to apologize for."

With Childermass's help, Jonathan manages to stand again, to go back down the stairs into the parlor where Childermass settles him in an arm chair by the fireplace. While Jonathan tries not to doze - dreaming usually leads to Arabella and it hurts far, far too much - he watches Childermass build the fire and set it alight.

When Childermass goes to leave the room, Jonathan starts up, a soft sound of protest slipping from his lips.

Childermass turns back, comes back, and sets a gentle hand on Jonathan's shoulder, easing him back into the chair as he meets Jonathan's gaze. "I'm going to get you something to eat and drink," he says, "I will not leave you alone, I swear it."

After a moment's indecision, Jonathan nods, and Childermass disappears out the door. Jonathan watches the fire, trying not to think, trying not to feel. It's hard. There's too much to think about, too much to feel, and by the time Childermass returns with a tray Jonathan is crying again. Childermass makes no comment, only sets the tray down on a table beside Jonathan, then pulls a chair of his own over to sit nearer the fire. And nearer Jonathan.

Jonathan does not know how long they sit like that. He manages to eat and have some tea. He manages to sleep. He cries quite a bit. And all the while Childermass is there, a silent and steady presence by his side.

He understands, he thinks, why Mr. Norrell finds him so indispensable.


End file.
